As You Think (Part Two)

Davon sent me home soon after Kimberly left, telling me to return Friday; exactly one week from today. My thoughts are fixed on the man as I climb into my powder blue cobalt, trying to jam the key into the ignition as I eye the large, white house. When I succeed, I slowly put my car in reverse and carefully back out of the long, winding driveway.

He haunts me throughout the week, steering my thoughts toward him whenever I’m not busy enough to keep him at bay. Again and again, I wonder what spell he’s put on me; even though I know he hasn’t. But I can’t otherwise make sense of it, this fascination… attraction if I’m honest with myself. Which I don’t want to be, not on this.

On Wednesday, Nora steps into the café. The bells hanging over the door signal her arrival, she steps inside. Long, blonde hair caresses her arms and shoulders, as she casually looks around. Then she spots me, bent over the table I have been bussing, and struts over with a pleasant smile clinging to her lips.

Her unusual violet eyes shine with curiosity, as she slides her lithe form into the booth. Bright red lipstick making a stark contrast to her loose white dress, decorated with criss-crossing black lines which almost seem to hypnotize.

“This table isn’t clean yet, Ms. Falkum. The one behind it is ready for use though,” I tell her, jabbing my thumb toward the table on my left.

“It’s quite alright, Raina, I’m not here for treats today,” She tells me, giving my hand which is still clutching a yellow sponge, a few taps, “How many times have I told you to just call me Nora?”

“But you’re a customer, I don’t think my boss would like it,” I tell her, then ask, “If you’re not here for the sweets, why are you here?”

“Why, to see you of course,” She says, scooting over to offer me a seat. I decline, sparing a glance back toward the counter, where Mr. Abrams stands, watching me. “By now, I assume you’ve payed Davon a visit?”

“Yes, he is-“

“Unusual?” she asks, before I can finish my thought.

I nod, “To say the least.”

“You’ve fallen under his spell, so to speak,” she says, her lips twitching as amusement dances in her gaze.

“Of course not!” my voice breaks on the last word, my stomach tightening at the denial.

She flicks her hand at my boss and I watch in amazement as his back straightens, then he walks through the kitchen door. I look at her, sure that my eyes could not be any wider. She smiles and pats the spot beside her. This time, I obey.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, few women are immune to his devilish charms. I myself lost a few months to the man, of course that was years ago,” she informs me, taking the sponge from my hand. She gingerly places it on the table.

“I see,” I tell her, though I don’t understand at all. Is she saying he’s a playboy? He certainly hadn’t made a move on me. At least, I don’t think he did.

“Well, you’re a smart girl. I think you’ll come to your senses soon enough.”

“Oh, trust me,” I meet her gaze, “I’m well on my way.”

She laughs, “Good!” then she leans in close, her violet eyes searching my gaze as she asks, “Has he accepted you as his apprentice?”

“He hasn’t said,” I inform her with a slight shrug, “Just asked me this weird question, bossed me around a bit, and told me to come back Friday.”

“That sounds promising,” Nora states, the glint in her eyes sending shivers down my spine. I can see the secret on her face, causing alarms to blare in my head.

“Why do you want me to train under him? He says the two of you are,” I pause, choosing my words carefully when I continue, “Very different people.”

“Let me guess; he called me ‘stuffy’?”

I blink back my surprise, now sure that telepathy is real, “Yes. He’s very open with magic, while you’re more secretive. Or at least that’s what I’ve gathered.”

“I would say he’s reckless rather than open. But yes, you’re mostly right,” she tells me, her lips a straight, unreadable line.

“Why is he so brazen with it then? I can’t imagine it’s safe. If the wrong people found out,” I stop, taking a deep breath, “I’m imagining the witch trails would come back into fashion.”

She frowns, “I imagine the same, a war between us and the ungifted. But Davon has so much faith in humanities ability to cast off anything they don’t understand, he believes they’re too skeptical now for history to repeat itself,” Nora shakes her head, a bitter croak sneaking up her throat, “I think he’s foolish.”

“I agree.”

“I thought you would,” she smiles, taking my hand in hers. She holds my gaze with intensity, meaning, that I don’t yet understand, “That’s why I’m counting on you.”

My brows furrow, the gears of my mind turning as I try to make sense of her words. I can’t, so I ask, “What do you mean?”

“Raina!” Mr. Abrams shouts, causing me to jerk up out of the booth. I look frantically between my angry, and somewhat confused looking boss.

Nora smiles, “We’ll talk about it another time,” then she rises, squeezing her way past me and out the door. Leaving me troubled, and not just because of the reprimand I’m likely about to receive.

It’s Friday and I’m once again standing in Davon’s office. My eyes glide over the books resting on his shelf, near the desk. The titles seem foreign, though where they’re from I have no idea.

“They’re written in Fae,” Davon tells me, approaching from behind. His silky voice wraps around me, like a lovers embrace. “I’m glad you let yourself in, I was busy in the basement.”

“I’m glad you don’t find it rude,” I reply, unable to look at him. When he moves to my side, I turn away. 

The ravenous hunger his voice ignites within me instills a sense of fear, telling me it would take little for this man to control me; a part of me wonders if it would be such a bad thing to let him.

I can feel his eyes on me, penetrating me with his curiosity. I feel vulnerable, exposed before him. I’m certain he knows my thoughts, him and Nora have already solidified themselves as telepaths as far as I’m concerned.

A knock eases the tension I’ve built up, I’m relieved that we’ll no longer be alone. This time, he answers the door himself. Kimberly rushes inside, tears streaming down her cheeks and into her hands; which are cupped around her mouth.

“It’s horrible!” she cries, the words riding on a broken sob.

“Horrible?” I repeat, as though trying to remember what the word means, my gaze finally meeting Davon’s. His expression is calculating, appraising, and pinned on me.

His words from a week ago seem to echo endless in my head, ‘What happens when what we think is made manifest?’

I lick my lips, my mouth is too dry to moisten them, and shutter as I speak a single word, “Terror.”

He smiles.